There will be love
by Anloquen
Summary: Dean has messed up and this time he has messed up bad. In order to right his wrongs he will have to come to terms with his emotions and challenge his fear of chick-flick moments. Gabriel doesn't take any chances: he traps Dean in an alternate universe until Dean learns his lesson. Dean finds himself winding through... alternate universes described by fanfiction authors.
1. Introduction

**This fic is the 3rd and final part of a series of comedy/romance case!fics. You can find part 1intitled "What you see is what you get" and part 2 intitled "Take my breath away" by clicking on my profile.**

 **If you don't want to read previous 2 parts but you want to enjoy this one, you can read a short synopsis below. If you've read previous parts or intend to do it and you don't want spoilers, proceed to the next chapter.**

* * *

 **Spoilers ahead!**

* * *

 **"What you see is what you get"**

Dean and Sam encounter a Poludnitsa - a slavic monster that seduces single or unhappy men, drives them crazy and makes them die of high fever. She seduces Sam, Dean and Castiel, but only Sam's symptoms are normal (elevated body temperature, headaches, tiredness etc). Dean starts to feel unnaturally cold while Castiel becomes depressed and lost. Their symptoms recede whenever they are in physical contact. Bobby guesses that poludnitsa seduces single men who desire nothing but a romance with a pretty, appealing woman, but her charm backfired when she met two men who already longed for someone they couldn't have. Dean feels cold because Castiel is a provider of comfort and emotional warmth, while Castiel feels hopeless and vegetative because being with Dean is his only purpose.

In order to break the spell (and be able to hunt the Poludnitsa) Dean and Castiel have to get married, so that their connection becomes more permanent and stable. When they are more secure with each other and feel that they can rely on each other, they will no longer need to be in contact in order to satisfy their needs.

The initial attempt in marriage fails, because their vows aren't honest. In a moment of truth Castiel vows that Dean will always be the most important person in his life and Dean vows that Castiel will always be his family. As soon as they pledge what they really mean, the spell is broken and they manage to kill the poludnitsa, saving Sam's life.

 **"Take my breath away"**

Dean, Sam and Castiel investigate a case of a smotherer - a soot monster feeding on human breath - that chose a gay-friendly club as his hunting area. Dean is terrified at the thought that he would have to spend a night there. Charlie arrives to help the Winchesters blend in. Sam and Charlie make fun of Dean's homophobia.

Sam doesn't know that Castiel and Dean have had a rather unpleasant "honeymoon" trip, when Dean got hammered and finally decided to make out with his newly wed husband. The happy couple was cornered by some hooligans, who beat Dean and called him a fag. The incident resulted in Dean retreating into his shell of a strictly straight macho and rejecting Cas.

During the hunt in the gay-friendly club Dean gets drunk (and more open-minded) again. The hunt turns out to be a failure. Dean takes Castiel back to the motel and they make love for the first time. Upon sobering up Dean has another gay-panic attack, because he realizes that the gay men he met in the club were no different than him, so he can't claim he is not one of them. He takes his anger out on Castiel and asks him to leave.

The next attempt to kill the smotherer goes haywire. Dean loses his weapon and is left one on one with the monster, who starts feeding on him. There is another way to kill the monster - a dying man's last breath. Castiel appears in Dean's dying vision and convinces Dean to shoot himself, promising that he will resurrect him shortly. While Dean is temporarily dead he meets Death, who refuses to let him go. Castiel offers his life in exchange for Dean's. Death agrees, but he turns out to be disguised Gabriel, who has survived the confrontation with Lucifer. Although Gabriel shows a friendly attitude, he agrees to resurrect Dean only if Castiel stays with him. Upon waking up Dean swears to bring Castiel back even if it means that he would have to fight the archangel.


	2. Coming out of the closet

"Stop!" Dean's exclamation echoed in a nave of a soaring cathedral flooded with light seeping through enormous stained glass windows, forming motley patches on white walls and floor.

The man slipped on marble tiling and nearly toppled over. He finally regained his balance after gliding on his soles for a good couple of meters, then stopped, bent in half and panting heavily.

A priest dressed in a chasuble dripping with gold embroidery turned around ever so slowly to send the intruder a snide smile.

"Is there something you would like to say?" he asked, rising one brow.

"Uhm, yeah..." Dean wheezed, struggling to catch his breath before he was finally able to straighten up, "Gabe?" he growled, "Wherever you are, show your ugly mug so I can kick it right now!"

The priest's smug face melted away in a blur; before Dean had time to blink he was looking at Gabriel's shit-eating grin that contrasted unsettlingly with his menacing look.

"Watch your language, boy. You're in the house of God..."

"House of God my ass," Dean shot him a glare before taking a better look around the church. To his relief and surprise, Castiel's beige trench coat was nowhere in sight. Instead, his gaze fell on a very real and very pissed Tessa, who was standing near the first row of seats, clenching her hands on an enormous bouquet of white roses. She was surrounded by a flock of funky bridesmaids, all dressed in fuchsia bubble dresses that matched tiny silk bows scattered across numberless layers of tulle of the Reaper's luxuriant wedding gown. Her chest, squeezed by a lavishly embroidered corset, was heaving in rapid breath. It took Dean a while to guess that there was another reason for her agitation besides this sudden interruption.

He frowned.

"Where's Cas?"

"I'm right here, " the angel's gravelly baritone resounded from somewhere near the entrance, making Dean swing around and nearly biff on slippery tiles again. There was a stir among the guests as Castiel was walking down the aisle; despite his jitters Dean couldn't help but chortle at the sight of his angel clad in an expensive-looking tuxedo, with a blue dianthus boutonniere and his hair neatly groomed perhaps for the first time in his existence.

"Are you... Are you really Cas? 'Cause I'm not spilling my guts here to one of this douche's puppets," Dean asked, eyeing his friend dubiously.

With a small wave of his hand and a tilt of his head Castiel returned to his original form of an unassuming scribe who happened to be struck by a lightning as he was walking through a hurricane. Twice.

Dean sighed with relief as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face.

"Good. We need to talk, man."

A theatrical 'errrkhm' sounded behind the hunter's back. He didn't turn his head, but he could hear Gabriel's footsteps in the chilly silence that fell in the cathedral as the Archangel was approaching Dean and Castiel. Gabriel clapped his hands.

"I've always wanted to do something like this," he chirped cheerfully, then puffed up to give his words the proper solemnity, "If anyone has reason for these two not to wed, speak now or forever hold your peace"

Dean rolled his eyes before he sent the elder angel a scowl over his shoulder.

"Seriously, Gabe? What is it now? _Sweet Home Alabama?_ That's so classy..."

"We'll talk about my taste later. Now, is there is anything you wish to say?"

Dean had to choke back a snarl before he could meet Castiel's calm, hopeful gaze. He took a deep breath...

-xXx-

13 days (or 3 minutes) earlier

Sam shifted a pile of books warily to make some space on a couch, then slumped onto it next to his brother, who tensed up in an anticipation of a lecture.

"If you're gonna schmooze about the fatal effects of coffee, whiskey and sleep deprivation you might as well save your breath. I should eat and sleep, but I won't, thank you very much," Dean gabbled angrily without taking his eyes off the book he was scrutinizing.

"Actually, I gave up on it a while ago. I came to tell you that there might be a case."

He wasn't sure if Dean's mutter was a sign of attention or exasperation, but he decided to go on.

"There might be a shifter in Minneapolis. Three similar cases of a stripper being sent out for a private party, robbing and killing the clients, then going missing."

There was no reaction other than a shrug.

"Yeah. Call Garth, he should be able to deal with a shifter."

"Dean. Do you read me? _Strippers_ ," the younger Winchester coaxed.

"I said call Garth. He'll be on cloud nine. Now will you please sod off? I have a case here if you haven't noticed."

Sam knitted his brows.

"Yeah, I have noticed..." he sighed, running his hands down his face; after a short moment that he needed to pluck up the courage he added: "Dean, what exactly do you think you are doing? You're gonna summon an archangel and then what?"

"First things first, Sammy. Haven't you learned it already?"

In spite of Dean's nonchalance Sam could see how knotted his muscles were. After a while of awkward silence, the older Winchester finally took his eyes of the yellowed parchment to look at his brother.

"Will you be a sweetheart and make me another coffee?" Dean asked with affected urbanity, "Yes? No? OK then, I'll make it myself..." he added, heading towards the kitchen. It was obviously a retreat in hope to end the conversation. What Dean hadn't expected was that he would meet Bobby, awkwardly frozen in a half-bow with a piece of stewed free range turkey in his hand. Dean walked in on him stealing his midnight snack from his own fridge that was full of organic, healthy food now that Sam was in charge of the house because Dean was too busy trying to do the impossible and Singer was too worried about his foster son to give a damn.

Bobby threw a startled glance at Sam who had followed his brother into the kitchen, then straightened up and cleared his throat with an intention to explain. It didn't take him long to realize that the younger Winchester absolutely ignored the fact that Bobby was about to breach the not-eating-after-8-PM-rule. He was too concerned with Dean, who looked even more panic-stricken than the nocturnal gourmand caught red handed.

Dean Winchester was cornered.

"Look, man," his brother tried again, "Perhaps it's time to accept that he is gone."

"He isn't _gone_ ," the older grunted with an almost childish pout, "I'm bringing him back."

"Listen... You're trying to summon Gabriel. OK, I get it. But what's next? How do you want to get Cas back?"

"I'll kill that gold-plated assface if that's what it takes."

"Dean, Gabe's not the problem here..." Seeing hurt and confusion in his brother's eyes, Sam added softly, "Haven't it occurred to you that perhaps Cas wanted to leave?"

"Why would he?" Dean bristled.

"Want the list of reasons to be alphabetical or chronological?" Bobby scolded halfheartedly, putting the turkey away. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

The older Winchester took a few deep breaths, considering what he had heard. Whatever was the outcome of this cogitation, it made him straighten up threateningly and clench his jaw.

"You know what?" he growled "I'm not talking about it. It's none of your business. You don't wanna help me? OK, I get it. I'll do it on my own and I'll do it my way," he stormed out of Bobby's house, slamming the door. Instead of walking out into a chilly summer night he found himself in a tiny, sparsely furnished room. The buzz of a cheap '90s style plastic alarm clock informed him that it was 6 AM.

He spun around to wrench the door, but now they opened to a little built-in closet. No matter how carefully he looked, there was no hidden passage back to Bobby's house.

There wasn't a passage to Narnia either for that matter.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself.


	3. Beautiful, Dirty, Rich

Dean found himself surrounded by white, bare walls flooded with hard light of merciless southern sun. There were only a few pieces of austere furniture: a bed with a simple metal frame, a shelf holding a heap of moto magazines and a small nightstand on which the damned black-and-red alarm clock was still buzzing. Having eyed it dubiously, the hunter turned the alarm off. Nothing exploded. It was a good sign.

His hopes to learn more by looking out of the window were forlorn: he saw nothing but a patch of perfectly trimmed lawn, a small palm tree and a tall hedge. None of this things looked particularly deadly. Years of brushing against the supernatural and being tossed about various freaky realms facilitated accepting situations such as this, perhaps even got Dean used to it; not to mention that he had been expecting Gabriel to pull one of his tasteless pranks anyway. As annoyed as he was, he had to admit that he could have wound up in a much worse situation. A shrug and a scratch on the back of his head was the only reaction Dean could muster.

It wasn't until he scratched his belly and buttocks, yawning widely, that he realized he was wearing nothing but briefs.

"Oh, come on..." he drawled out, sending a sour scowl towards the ceiling. For unknown reasons he still couldn't get rid of the silly belief that placed angels on some unspecified orbit above his head.

No matter how much he beefed, though, he was still half-naked. There was no other option but to search the built-in closet he'd just come out from for something wearable. What he found there made him utter an inarticulate growl. The closet held five identical sets of clothing: a cheap black polyester suit and a white shirt. A separate rack held a selection of identical maroon ties and white cotton gloves. On side shelves he found some white underwear, ridiculously shiny patent leather shoes and a black peaked cap with a maroon band and a gold-colored cord.

"Gabe, I always knew you were a sucker for shlock, but for Christ's sake..." Dean nagged, pulling the clothes on with sheer disgust written all over his face.

Driven by a sudden upsurge of hope, Winchester decided to check if - by any chance - Gabriel decided to show mercy and provide him with any weapon. There was nothing but an empty leather suitcase under the bed, so Dean checked under the pillow. Instead of a gun or at least a knife he found a worn-out and battered polaroid photo. It took him a while to recognize the tanned, smiling man in aviator sunglasses, leaning on a midnight blue 1966 Lamborghini Miura.

 _Cas_?

Well, that was a novelty.

With the photo in one pocket and a pair of gloves in the other, Dean warily opened the door, passed a narrow corridor...

... and found himself in the middle of an architectonic abomination. The first thing he noticed was a double curved staircase that occupied nearly half of a hangar-sized marble-tiled hall. The staircase's throughput suggested it had been designed to allow for a rapid evacuation of a high school, but it led onto a narrow gallery that stretched along the hall's longer wall and connected to a series of doors and corridors that must have led to further parts of the mansion. Both the staircase and the gallery were framed by an elaborate metal railing of a really curious color.

 _Gold-plated_? Dean thought to himself, cocking his head. He took a look around, then sneaked to the railing in order to surreptitiously scratch one of the yellow, metallic, shiny leaves. Damn sure the railing wasn't gold-plated; it emboldened Dean a little. He proceeded to check out rows of life-sized and oversized statues of naked nymphs or godesses or whatever, as well as heroes and gods. He assumed they wouldn't be made of real alabaster, but this time it was wrong.

He was just starting to wonder why the gods' junks were so tiny when he heard quick, thumping footsteps and before he had time to react he was assaulted with a rag by a huge, middle-aged gorgon.

"What do you think you are doing here, Dean Winchester?" she squawked, looking at him with an admonitory frown, "How many times do I tell you? Breakfast at quarter past six! And quit gawking at the statues. We don't need your weird deviation in this house. This is a respectable house!" she herded him towards a door at the end of the same corridor Dean had emerged from, accentuating every sentence with a blow of the wet rag, "Young master will be up in fifteen minutes! I am certainly not lying your sorry bum out of trouble again!"

The Winchester was forced to sit down by a chunky wooden table in what seemed to be a huge kitchen; his fleeting glances lurched from one face to another. There were two young girls dressed in a decent version of a french maid outfit he knew so well. None of them graced him with a glance. They kept spooning white-ish glop from their bowls. Dean had an impression that the girls seemed familiar, although he couldn't really put his finger on it. Perhaps... he had a vague reminiscence that included leather thigh high boots, ice cubes and hot chilli sauce... or maybe it was mustard?

His ruminations were interrupted when, to Dean's horror, a bowl of oatmeal was placed in front of him. His gaze followed a plump arm of the woman who had clobbered him and now apparently intended to continue the torture by force-feeding. He finally recognized her, though in a blue uniform, an apron and a white bonnet she hardly resembled herselt. The hunter almost choked on the oatmeal.

"Missouri?"

"What are you talking about, young man?"

The maids finished their breakfast and evacuated from the kitchen. Their rush spelled trouble. Dean didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

"Are you drunk?" the woman frowned, standing next to Dean with her arms akimbo.

"Missouri, what's going on here? Are you a part of this show or..."

"Blow," Missouri leaned in to bring her face close to Dean's.

"What? What the hell are you talking..."

" _Blow_!"

Having no choice Dean blew feebly; Missouri uttered a short, half-satisfied grunt.

"Sober..." she muttered to herself, pursing her lips.

Suddenly the hunter found himself being felt with her warm, large palms; his fever checked, his eyelids pulled fully open and his face turned towards light. Unable to find anything alarming she plopped down on a chair next to Dean.

"Are you sure you are good to drive today? Be honest with me!" she wagged her finger at the man, "I am not letting young master get hurt because of your vagaries."

Dean was about to blurt another question, but he bit his tongue in time. He had no craving for another round of folksy diagnosis, so he just nodded half-heartedly before finishing his breakfast in a few hastily swallowed spoonfuls. Missouri seemed content with the answer; she gestured him to leave, but as he was about to pass the door, she cleared her throat loudly.

"What?"

She eyed him meaningfully; Dean didn't decipher the meaning, though.

"What?" he repeated louder.

"Are you going to present yourself to young master in this condition?"

Having noticed Winchester's loss Missouri sighed, then proceeded to set his hair and rub remnants of oatmeal from the corners of his lips.

"You have always been a slob, boy, but today it takes the cake,"she grumped under her breath, adjusting Dean's tie and straightening up his jacket, "Why mister Singer hired you is beyond me."

She obviously failed to notice Dean's dumbfounded expression when he gaped at her.

"All right, now don't forget the gloves. And run along. What are you waiting for?" she shooed him out of the kitchen unceremoniously. Dean had no choice but to walk back to that Versaille-knockoff hall.

"Damn, what's going on here..." he murmured to the group of alabaster nakeys, "do you understand anything of it?"

His look glossed over the appalling gallery until it fell on a small figure clad in black, white and gold livery, leaning casually against one of the largest marble monstrosities and sucking on a lollipop. Dean immediately felt his blood boil.

"You sucker," he roared, starting up to Gabriel, "what's this crap supposed to mean?"

He groaned in rancor and confusion when an invisible force stopped him a couple of feet away from the archangel.

"Oh my..." he mocked Dean's futile attempts to punch him on the face, "Somebody help me!"

The hunter had to accept his defeat, though he was still steaming with anger when Gabriel approached him, smirking and gesturing widely with his heart-shaped lollipop.

"You mean this?"

"You know damn well what I mean, douche nozzle. Where's Cas?"

Gabriel clucked his tongue.

"Poor, poor alpha male. What are you gonna do when you can't just kick and yell your way to what you want? You see, there is one itsy bitsy hiccup. Your tantrums don't impress me."

The hunter was still glowering at Gabriel with no intention to chaffer. The archangel shrugged.

"You can have a fairy-tale tryst with your prince charming in a minute, but first, tell me Dean-o," he leaned in to whisper into Winchester's ear, "are you familiar with the term _fanfiction_?"

Dean's face went from livid to deadly pale in less than a second.


	4. California king bed

So apparently Dean was a chauffeur hired by an obscenely rich family that owned a chain of car showrooms. The head of the family - honorable mister Robert Singer - had two children from his first marriage. His second wife, Pamela, was much younger than him, but their marriage was a result of true love. Obviously.

Driving the heir of the Singer's fortune to the local airport was Dean's first job. Of course he could do that. Piece of cake. There wad no reason to hurry, because the plane would wait for as long as they needed. Private jets tend to do that.

The hunter was toying with the car keys, standing almost at attention next to a black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Every curse he muttered under his breath echoed in the huge underground garrage. The fact that he didn't take a stroll through the chamber to appreciate the collection of vintage sport cars and limousines spoke volumes about the state of his mind. He felt that his fingers were getting colder and stiffer every second, almost to the point where merely holding the keys was difficult. So far there were no squealing teenagers groping him or trying to make him make out with a guy, but the idea of him being a chauffeur was more than disturbing. He'd watched too much porn not to know where it could lead.

Oh, yes. Young master was named James Singer, but for some reasons he preferred to go by a nickname. Friends called him Cas.

Dean's head jerked up and the car keys landed on the floor with a dry clank when he heard footsteps. Winchester swallowed loudly, having noticed the familiar dark-haired man approaching him at a brisk pace. He managed to almost-keel over and almost-retreat a couple of times before Cas finally stopped, inches from Dean's chest. The expression of his face was inscrutable when he was steadily examining the hunter. Winchester wasn't sure what it meant, though he could have sworn that he spotted this ever so familiar affection in the angel's unearthly blue eyes.

After a moment that felt like a lifetime Cas's lips budged in a barely noticeable smile and his head tilted in that inimitable, birdlike gesture.

"Hello, Dean," he rasped, taking that ridiculous cap off his friend's head.

Dean's sigh of relief must been audible everywhere within a radius of three miles.

"Cas, man, do you know what's going on here?"

"In fact I do know, Dean," the Seraph answered, "I suggest you drive us to somewhere nice so that we can talk."

It was a simple task. Dean could do that. Almost.

"Somewhere nice? How do I know where's to go? I've been here for like an hour."

Castiel seemed to be amused by his own thoughts.

"I presume that in this world everywhere is nice."

Dean scratched the back of his head and shrugged, guessing that he would never get angelic sense of humor.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

"Dean, please. I do understand your irateness, but you have to try to understand my situation. The fact that Gabriel does not wish to confine me does not mean that I have any way of influencing his decisions regarding you. Besides, he managed to convince me that it will be for the best."

Dean snorted angrily, walking back and forth along a small lay-by over a cliff on which he'd parked the Rolls-Royce. Cas had been right - the world created by Gabriel was nauseatingly idyllic. Soft, warm breeze carried the scent of the ocean that shimmered and hummed at the foot of reddish rocks. Palm trees and cedars soughed softly. There was no cloud on the azure sky, but the sun wasn't torrid. A part of Dean's mind wondered why there was no table with a selection of colorful treats and drinks served in coconuts with those ridiculous little paper umbrellas anywheget in sight.

Nonetheless, he was mainly pissed.

"Best? For what? Giving me nightmares?"

Cas responded to his friend's glare with a sigh.

"This reality is not devised to torment you. My brother intends to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, 'cause that sounds so much better," gnarled Dean.

"I admit the difference may be too subtle to discern from a certain point of view. Still, following Gabriel's guidelines will prove beneficial to you."

"Damn it..." Dean's voice became deeper and throaty, "By the way why is he suddenly dead set on mind-fucking me, huh? I'd get it if you wanted to nail me to the wall, but him? What is it, some kind of a blood feud? Brotherly solidarity? He doesn't even like you."

"It is personal, yes, but not in the way you think," there was less leniency and and more exasperation in Cas's voice every second.

Dean came to an abrupt halt. He turned slowly to squint at the angel.

"Wait, Cas. How do I know it's not you doing this? Gabe was dead... How come he just went back?"

"Why would I do this?" Castiel challenged.

"Dunno, maybe 'cause I was an asshole? I get that you're pissed and you probably wanna smite me, I mean _I'd_ smite me, but man..."

"Dean. Enough!" suddenly the Seraph's voice was powerful, deep and sonorous, reverberating clearly over the hum of waves and the sough of wind. Winchester instinctively took a step back. From Cas's stance - jaw set, fist clenched, shoulders squared - and a slight tremor of his muscles Dean could tell how angry the angel was and how hard he fought to keep his power in check.

"I said that I forgave you. I don't see why you refuse to believe me," he heaved a deep sigh to come down a bit, "This is Gabriel's plan. He explained his motivation to me and I agree with most of it. It is not only about me. It's about Sam, about Gabriel. It is about you calling him a coward and encouraging him to act."

His words seeped slowly to the hunter's consciousness.

"Woah," Dean breathed, "Are you telling me that your eternal, infinitesimally powerful big bro has a small dick syndrome? That he's so touchy that he'll create a whole new world just to get back at me for calling him names? Geezus, I made this toffee-nosed twat do the right thing for once and the first thing he has on his mind after coming back from counting worms is messing with me?"

"This is exactly what I am trying to explain. Gabriel doesn't want to punish you. He wants to return the favor. Try to get something out of it."

They stood immobile for a while, inches from each other, until Castiel capitulated and ended the stare down.

"Please," he added more cordially, "You will come to no harm. I don't like his methods either, but there is no help for it. Archangels are extremely willful."

"Dude, I've already..." Dean was interrupted by a rustle and a rush of air. He didn't even have to look around to know what it meant. He gestured widely in helpless annoyance.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Although he was not sure if other people in Gabriel's fantasy word had a sense of time (or even if they existed when he wasn't looking) Dean spent an hour or so driving aimlessly before returning to the mansion to make the cover-up story of driving Cas to an airport more plausible. The Royce wasn't Impala, but taking slightly banked turns while he was speeding on the road thoughtfully provided by Gabriel let him let off some steam and wrap his head around this new situation. He guessed that if Camp Gabe wouldn't require dying multiple times, being tied to a ball-whacking machine or talking about genital herpes, he could actually survive it. At least he wanted to believe so.

Having parked the limousine Dean walked back to the mansion along a wide, curved marble walkway flanked by lemon trees, cypresses and lavender. He was so lost in thought that he noticed nothing until he bumped into a warm and oddly familiar mass. The only thing that shocked him was that the mass smelled of suntan oil and Axe.

"Sammy?"

"I told you not to call me like that," the man opposed coldly. He looked exactly like Dean's brother, save for the fact that he was tanned, had his whole body shaved clean (which stood out, because he was wearing nothing but surf shorts and flip-flops) and his hair bound in a tight, sleek ponytail. Plus, he spoke with a recognizable Hispanic accent, "My name is Samuél."

Sam-Samuél walked away, followed by Dean's dumbfounded stare. Winchester snapped out of it upon hearing a clink of teeth against a hard candy behind his back. He swung around with his fists ready, but he hit thin air. Gabriel reappeared a second later slightly further from the hunter.

"What did you do to him?" Dean bellowed, ready to charge again.

"Relax before you develop a seizure, mister rabies" Gabriel smiled over his lolly, "I wouldn't haul your bro's ass here. I like Samsquatch too much. This one here is a dummy. Dummy-Sammy. Heh."

"Don't push your luck."

"Or what, you big walking talking wiener?" the archangel crossed his arms.

Dean exhaled angrily through gritting teeth.

"All right, Jigsaw," He tried to unruffle a bit; he was still in high dungeon, yet he understood that scuffling would do him no good, "What is this... Dunno, place? World?"

A sleazy grin spread on Gabriel's face.

"It is a so-called alternate universe. One of many, actually. This one is about rich people. You know. Subtle dominance. Or not so subtle. The-Bold-and-the-Beautiful kind of thing," he reveled in Dean's ill-concealed panic, "Fear not, Dean-o. This is one of the least twisted ideas I stumbled upon. I saved the best for later. I'll take it slow, cause it'd be pity if I gave you apoplexy right at the start. Baby steps."

"And why exactly am I here?" Winchester fought the sudden dryness in his throat, "What's the deal?"

"The deal is," Gabriel purred with fake suaveness as he was approaching Dean "that I let you go back to your world when you stop being a sophomoric, bipolar, emotionally constipated, insecure, narcissistic, masochistic, uncommunicative, self-loathing, self-defeating, self-centered, screwed up coochie."


	5. Material girl

"You know, son, that I am very tolerant and open-minded..." honorable mister Robert Singer spoke calmly from his throne - that is, from his huge leather rotating chair.

Dean had to focus real hard on pretending that he was listening. Monstrous hangover was making his eyeballs pulsate with dull pain and his guts twist; despite his best efforts he couldn't keep focused on the man on the other side of an oak desk.

"I would be a hypocrite if I said that I never liked carefree fun. I used to party when I was young, too. Still, I knew my limits..." SInger droned on in a calm, even voice.

There was something odd about him. Dean squinted, tilting his head. Everything was hazy. Bobby was so not-Bobby-ish... What was he saying, anyway?

"Everyone is aware that I started from repairing wrecked cars on my uncle's backyard. When I earned my first real money it was enough to buy my friends a couple of drinks so that they would stop laughing at me for being poor and never going out with them. Do you know what I did?"

Perhaps it was that Bobby wasn't wearing his baseball cap. His hair looked funny. Like there was... more of it than Dean remembered.

"I invested in a better set of tools. I could work more efficiently, earn more. And here I am after 30 long years. My children will know no hunger or humiliation. They went to the best colleges. They will do whatever they want with their lives."

Was it a toupee?

"I had no degree, no assets, but do you know what I had?"

No, it wasn't. Gazillionaires never wear toupees. Of course it wasn't. It was hair transplant that corrected his receding hairline.

"I had a plan. I had perseverance and self-control. I knew my limits. I knew when I could let myself rest and rock the house, but I also knew when I had to make a push."

Dean squinted, trying to catch as much as he could from Bobby's rant over the excruciating buzz in his head.

"So I understand that everyone can have a bad day, but son, if you want to achieve anything, you have to know your limits. You can't get drunk and oversleep every time you feel downbeat!"

Bobby looked really weird. He acted really, really weird. Come on, everybody knew that getting drunk was exactly the thing to do when feeling downbeat. Catching as much sleep as possible was a must.

"You need self-discipline to overcome your problems. Improvidence and indolence are two things I cannot tolerate. Not in this house."

Those chipmunk flabby cheeks were gone too. Had he had a plastic surgery?

"One day you will understand that I am doing this for your own good. Now, you can stay here for a couple of days until you find a place to live, but you're fired."

Uh oh...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Being unemployed proved to be a perfect situation after all. With a bottle of shandy (it was unmanly, but perfect for hangover) in one hand and a cheese-and-ham sandwich in the other Dean stood on a small terrace, watching Samuél trim hedges, sweep dried leafs off sandstone paved passages and clean the swimming pool. The tall, tanned man was still wearing nothing but surf shorts, so Winchester was starting to wonder if his contract included parading half-naked all the time; his bronze skin drenched in suntan oil glistened in the sun. It was astonishing how little it took to turn Dean's awkward, lanky, ungainly brother into a cheesy porn cliche. Damn, he had been there for a little more than 24 hours and he was already starting to miss his giant nerdy brother.

Speaking of porn: the hunter was not the only person watching the handsome gardener. From his viewpoint Dean spotted Becky - Rebecca Singer - skulking behind a rhododendron shrub, ogling her father's employee. She sneaked up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, running her hands up his bare chest. Dean was outraged until he saw Samuél turn around, return the embrace and lean in to kiss the girl with an authentic smile of joy.

Oh, so it was _this_ kind of fanfiction.

Dean didn't have time to realize the magnitude of his relief when he felt a smack on his bottom and heard flirtatious purring next to his ear.

"How are you, tiger?"

He jerked away from the source of the sound, but to no avail. Pamela's bony hand was still gripping his buttock and when he spun around, she pulled herself even closer in the process, twisting her arm around him.

"Jezus Christ, what do you want from me, woman?"

"Oh, you're playing hard to get... How adorable!" she teased, squeezing Dean's ass so tight that her chunky golden rings probably gave him bruises, "I hear that you're unemployed from today."

Winchester nodded feebly in hope that agreeableness would gain him some freedom. Indeed, Pamela loosened her hold enough for Dean to take a step back, though her hands were still on his hips.

"I've always thought you were a gorgeous hunk, baby..." the woman kept cajoling; there was a moment when she actually sniffed Dean's neck, "but cheating on my husband with a chauffeur would be so plebeian. Now that my dear Robert has fired you, how about... My bedroom, in twenty?" Pamela licked her lips suggestively.

Having regained control over his body, Dean cleared his throat, then gently, but decidedly took Pamela's hands off of himself.

"Uhm... Pamela... I mean Mrs Singer... I don't think it's the best idea."

She let go with a theatrical pout, perhaps hoping that behaving like a teenage girl would make her more alluring. In any other set of circumstances Winchester would find this strategy highly effective.

"What ifff..." she began again, biting her lips suggestively as she prolonged the last sound, "I convince my stepson to have a threesome? I know you want it..."

Dean's eyes widened in horror.

"No! Geezus! For tit's sake! No!"

And that was it. For the first time in his life Dean ran away from a possible hot date with an obscenely rich MILF.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Like cures like. Dean relied on this old folk wisdom a little too confidently, because around 6PM his hangover was gone, but he was already slightly tipsy.

Samuél shushed him angrily when Dean rolled into the staff's break room. Wichester gave him a curious look. The gardener was sitting at a table with headphones on, staring intently at his laptop's screen and murmuring under his breath; his focused look darted between two windows as he was typing discontinuously. He looked like he was... studying?

Winchester sat at the other end of the table, waiting for the other man to finish whatever he was doing. Not even five minutes had passed when Samuél closed the laptop, took the headphones off and sent Dean an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he said, "We have to be logged in and work in real time during sessions."

"You what?"

"Dean, I have told you about this. I thought you would remember."

One thing wasn't changed in this world - Sam's sour grimace. The similarity to real Sam gave Dean the creeps.

"You can tell me again. I had a really bad day. Wouldn't mind a chat."

"I got enrolled for cultural anthropology on UF," the gardener announced flatly.

"And you..." Dean pointed at the laptop, frowning in disbelief.

"Yes. E-learning is a thing. I know you are a little backward, but you should be familiar with it. It's 21st century."

"But why would you do that?"

"Because," the taller man sighed, "I don't want always to be a gardener. Besides, it's about Becky. I mean miss Rebecca..."

When Samuel was speaking about her, a dreamy smile brightened up his face. He was in love.

Damned ratfink was in love.

"What about her?" Winchester asked more amicably.

The smile was beclouded by an expression of dejection.

"Well, she... We... Uhm," suddenly Samuél looked straight into Dean's eyes, "May I confide something to you?"

The hunter rested his elbows on the table.

"Sure. Get it off your chest, man. You look like you need it."

"You see..." Samuel began insecurely, "We want to get married."

Dean choked on his beer.

"Why would you do _that_?!"

Seeing hurt flash through Samuél's face the hunter realized his mistake.

"Easy. I mean that's great. I just thought you were more like, you know. A sex slave..." he floundered, trying to apologize, "Shit. No. Don't mind me. Apparently I browse the wrong part of the Internet."

Samuél accepted the apology with a sigh.

"The thing is that I don't know if it's so great. Just look at her. Miss Rebecca Singer. Heiress to a fortune, living like a princess. What can I give her? What if mr Singer disowns her? She'll become mrs Llamas-Gabilondo with no chance for a life she knows. No chances for wealth, fame..." Samuel's voice was gradually trailing off. His earnestness infected Dean.

"Dude, are you sure she wants it?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then there are no buts," Dean rolled his eyes, "It's not like you're lying to her. She's got a brain too. She knows who you are and what you can give her. If she wants to junk her little royal heaven for you, it's her choice. Go for it, man."

Contours of the room blurred; a faint, low buzz drowned out all sounds. Dean felt dizzy. The next second he was sitting on a trunk of an uprooted tree in a dark, humid northern forest.

* * *

 **Hi, guys! I'd like to thank you for your wonderful reviews :) They mean a lot to me!**

 **This story is going to include mainly humor and lovey-gooey-feels (and a little bit of boy melodrama). If you feel like reading some really good smut, see "That's not my name" written by the iz and while you're on the profile ****don't forget to check out other stories written by the same author. They're brilliant.**


	6. Giggle at the ghostly

The first thing that hit him was the smell. A faint, but opressive stench of decay and death; of rotting trees and mucid soil, mixed with his own stink: body odor, a tang of oily, sweat-soaked denim, gunpowder, cosmoline and crude oil. He flinched at the thought of walking through this boggy carpet of dead moss that was festering on sodden ground. Usually he had nothing against getting dirty, but there was something appalling about this forest. Something sinister and distressing.

"Come," Gabriel urged from behind Dean's back. The man didn't turn to face him, "we have to reach a shelter before it gets dark."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

It took Dean a while to get over the strange sensation of being defiled or infected by the sick, dying forest as he was following the archangel in a fatiguing walk. The path wound between uprooted trees and landslides. There was something eerie about this place; something surreal, but disturbingly familiar. Like reminiscing something without certainty if it had been dream or reality.

Gabriel waited patiently for a good moment to speak.

"You know, I'm proud of you, Dean-o. Really. I thought it would take you longer," he began, not looking at his companion.

"What would take longer?" Dean snapped, focused on getting as little of the smelly, putrid mud into his shoes as he could.

"Digging the game."

"I scored a point or something?" Winchester sneered, "When?"

"Oh, so you didn't get it," Gabriel tilted his head and clucked his tongue, "My bad. It's about what you said to poor Samuel."

The Winchester stopped to ponder, frowning and looking at Gabriel askance.

"And that's it? I say some random sappy crap and you tick a box and zap me to a next world?"

"Exactly."

The archangel turned around; his expression was inscrutable for a moment before he threw his head back and burst into laughter.

"Just kidding. I can read your mind, so don't even think about cheating," he explained, pointing a finger at Dean, "You really get it, you just don't about know it yet."

They resumed their walk - Gabriel easy and cheerful, Dean het up and frustrated. After a couple of minutes the shorter man spoke again, gesturing widely.

"Anyway, how do you like it?"

"What?" Winchester barked grimly.

"The worlds. The ideas. You know, the surname for instance," Gabriel turned to face Dean and walked backwards for a while, "Don't tell me you didn't get it," he frowned, having noticed no spark of recognition, "Oh, come on. Hel-lo, gun manufacturers? Winchester? Llamas-Gabilondo? Rings a bell? No? Geez, I never hoped you were a genius, but really..." he concluded with an inarticulate - or maybe Enochian - mutter and an eyeroll.

Before Dean could come up with a retort, the sight that emerged from behind a group of trees stopped him in tracks. He had suspected it for some time, but Impala's wreck and the faded wooden gate with an inscription that read _Camp Chitaqua_ left no doubts.

"What the hell is this?"

"So now you can't even read?" squawked Gabriel.

Dean took a step back.

"No. No way. I'm not going back there."

"Yes, you are."

"Fuck you, Gabe. Seriously? Cribbing ideas from Zachariach? Dude, I didn't think you'd sink so low as that."

"It's not me who cribbed the idea and this is one of the best universes. Second on my list of personal favs. Anyway, you know it was a vision, not real timetravel?"

The archangel rose his eyebrows; his poise - a bit less disdainful, a little more attentive - convinced Dean to pick up the gauntlet. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm down.

"It took me a while, but I got it," he admitted wearily, sitting down on a stump near the path.

"What tipped you off?"

Winchester pursed his lips, wondering.

"Lucifer. He was too sane. That junkless ape didn't even have the imagination to create a proper basket case."

"And?"

A long, jerky sigh was the only answer. Gabriel waited for a while before he magicked up another stump for himself to sit down next to the hunter.

"Oh, don't mind me," he taunted, "Keep talking. I'm getting used to your verbal diarrhea. I've spent some time in silence, you know. It's actually nice to listen to your prattle for a change. I always appreciate a good chat with people who speak their minds like you. Just, you know, watch your breath. We don't want you to suffo..."

"Damnit! All righ, have it your way," Winchester surrendered, "It was Cas. There was something off about him. He was... I don't know. Too unmoved, cut up. This... Apathy. I know the guy. I know he'd never throw in the towel like this. And this whole love guru thing? Orgies? That just wasn't him."

"How do you know?"

Though Dean would never admit it, his heart skipped a beat when he realized they were actually getting somewhere.

"Casual sex is not his cup of tea," he explained, fighting his own shame.

In response Gabriel rolled his eyes; no, he rolled his whole head before he sent Dean a dark look.

"Du-uh..."

The hunter was poleaxed.

"So? Wasn't it the big lightbulb over my head?" he growled.

"M-hm. Not yet."

Having stood up, Winchester started to pace back and forth edgily.

"Damnit. What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever you fell like."

Dean snorted.

"Want me to burst out crying ? Or write a poem? Buy him flowers, tattoo _I'm a sorry asshole_ on my forehead, what? What do you want?"

With the last word he landed a blow on Gabriel's jaw. To his shock the figure broke with a dry crackle, revealing a heap of colorful candies that spilled from the archangel's cracked head.

The real Gabriel appeared next to the pinata a split second later; he answered Dean's scowl with an apologetic, innocent smile.

"Just a weird connotation. Lucifer being a bag of dicks. Me being a bag of sweets and goodies, and... Oh, gimme a break. Not _all_ of my jokes have to be brilliant!"

Dean just exhaled furiously, not intending to dignify Gabriel's excuses with an answer.

"Get me out of here now."

"Nay. No can do."

"I said get me out of here, you puffy asshead. You have no right to judge me. It's between me and Cas and he gets it. _He gets it_. He doesn't need me to be perfect, so fuck off!"

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Dean hardly registered how reality around him melted again to solidify in the shape of an underground garage; he didn't care. All he was aware of was the rage swelling in him, barely contained, a hot pressure in his chest that hurt almost physically.

"You sonofabitch!" he bellowed into the dark, "I had a shitty life, but I had it. Nobody asked you to stick your bib in. I wasn't good but I knew what I was doing. Nobody cares that I am a fucked up disaster and sure as hell I don't care either so you can go _The Swan_ on someone else. You can't fuck with people's lives like this. Fuck off to your candy Wonderland and leave me the hell alone!"

Gabriel's silhouette loomed in the dim, cool light; Dean lurched forward, readying his fists...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

He lurched forward and landed on all fours, but didn't feel any pain or even impact. A quick look around left him thunderstruck.

The world around was nearly two-dimensional, with separate plains emerging from behind one another like cheap theater props or paper screens. Everything was just represented in simplified images, painted in nauseatingly pastel colors and outlined in black. Bright green hills were house-sized. Trees had single balls of leaves instead of crowns and there were flat, impossibly red apples stuck onto them. Dean's eyes and brain took their sweet time adjusting to the change before he could attempt to stand up. It proved almost impossible, as if his spine suddenly went stiff and oddly shaped. Dean tried to palpate his own body to check what was wrong. It was impossible too.

He had no arms.

A bright, beaming shape descended from the baby blue sky that was studded with small, flat, identically shaped clouds. After a couple of seconds Dean recognized a six-winged golden horse with a bright white horn. When the alicorn came closer Winchester was able to kind of recognize his... its... face.

The sight was so ludicrous that Winchester forgot to continue his effing and blinding.

"What the fuck is this supposed to... "

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Gabe cooed with noticeable amusement, gesturing towards a nearby pond with his head. Something crunched in his mouth as he was chewing continuously. Sugar cubes?

Dean took a few shaky steps to approach the pond. Though it was physically and geometrically impossible, he saw his own reflection or rather his side view in a perfectly still surface of perfectly opaque, blueish water.

He was a horse.

A cartoon horse.

For the second time in his life the hunter was utterly and undeniably horror-stricken. Every instinct was telling him to run or fight, but his body was petrified and out of control. He had no choice but stand there, gaping at the simplified image of a beige stallion with green eyes, flaxen mane and tail, an antiposession-symbol-shaped birthmark on the haunch and a pinkish horseshoe-shaped scar on the left front leg. He looked like he was made of play-doh.

 _Jesus Christ,_ he didn't have hoofs, just blunt studs.

He shrieked, knocked out of the shell shock by a sudden appearance. Next to him stood a black deer with bright, silvery eyes shaded by long eyelashes. Somehow Winchester knew that the deer was female, and even... kinda... sexy?

"Hi, Dean..." the animal's voice was alluring; a bit husky, but overall melodious and deep, "wanna ride me?"

In his confusion Dean had a hard time putting two and two together until it eventually clicked. It wasn't a deer. It was an antelope.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Winchester's brain simply stopped processing new information and the absurdity of the situation, replacing the welter of thoughts with a detached, a tad unhealthy quietude.

"Ha. Ha. Fuck you." he mumbled blankly.

"My poor, little Dean-o," Alicorn-Gabriel begun in a pontifical tone, "If I wanted to mess with you, I could give you the worst possible bad trip just like that," he twitched weirdly; Dean realized that the archangel wanted to illustrate the speech by snapping his fingers, but he had no fingers. The thought made the hunter snicker in bitter satisfaction.

"You see?" Gabriel continued, "I wanna help you. I don't know why, I mean you are obviously not worth the trouble, but perhaps this is just how I roll. Do you get it now? Will you listen to me?"

Winchester confirmed with a faint, uncertain nod.

"Come on, Dean-o. Let's get outta here. I don't like this world either."

* * *

 **Thank you for your wonderful reviews, they make my day!**

 **As to MLP: the hoofprint wasn't my idea, I googled Dean pony version and it was so adorable. There are nearly all main and recurring SPN characters ponified and OMG someone made a** **Gabriel pony plushie! It even has two pairs of wings.**

 **BTW there is a girl who cosplayed a humanized version of the Impala. So meta!**


	7. Pa,pa,paparazzi

Dean found himself in a large, modernly furnished hotel room in the twinkling of an eye. Luckily, everything seemed real this time, though not necessarily normal: everything was large, leather or vinyl or velvet and mostly black or in various shades of gray and silver. Winchester's body felt mostly all right, save for a prickling numbness of his legs, which he attributed to the fact that they'd been the hind legs of a cartoon stallion a few seconds before.

One thing that caught his sight was a huge poster - a heavily photoshopped picture of a punk rock band performing among fireworks and fake fog. The frontman was captured running towards the audience; though the dynamic poise and violent light made him look surreal, there was something oddly familiar about him. Dean had to come closed to take a better look.

He stumbled on something hard and squarish; he staggered, struggling to regain balance, but his other foot encountered an obstacle too, so he faceplanted gracelessly onto a fuzzy carpet. During arduous and equally graceless attempts to stand up he realized two things.

These weren't any free-standing objects that he had tripped over. He was wearing platform boots. Black, knee-high studded leather platform boots.

The numbness of his legs was caused by the same factor that prevented him from standing up in the usual manner: extremely tight pants.

The only thing that prevented him from taking these ridiculous boots off was the fact that he had no idea how to do it - the straps and buckles proved to be imitations, there were no shoestrings or zippers. Being a Winchester he couldn't give up without a fight. After a couple of failed attempts that left him bruised, frustrated and with an unidentified piece of clothing invading his butt crack he finally developed an effective way of working his own body in this torturous outfit. He even managed to make a few almost-steady steps. By the time he was ready to set forth on the journey to the other side of the room he had already guessed it, nonetheless he approached the poster to make sure. Yes, it was him.

Dean felt his own head warily, without much hope that Gabriel proved merciful this time. Of course he didn't. Winchester apparently had a mohawk and some piercing just like the fake-Dean in the picture.

Tentative knocking on the door interrupted his self-examination. The door opened slowly and a small, weedy figure snaked inside, bowing in reverence. It took Dean some time to recognize him because of the black suit, sunglasses (Indoors? Seriously?) and a big, black-and-blue wireless earpiece.

"Garth?"

"Oh, sir, yes, thank you. Thank you. You know my name. I didn't expect it..." the little man babbled, staring at Dean and still curtsying from time to time, "Please, sir, we need to go now. The car is waiting."

The hunter figured that following this cue was the only sensible move, though he balked at the thought of interacting with people or merely exiting the room while walking still felt more like riding a unicycle. With skittish guinea pigs instead of pedals. On a tightrope.

"In the meantime, sir," Garth handed him a pink fur-bound notebook while they were both waiting for an elevator, "I know the situation is difficult. I don't want to seem impolite or intrusive, but my daughter is your huge fan, so if you please..." he trailed off, looking at Dean with hope and trepidation.

Apparently he played a kind of music that appealed to underage girls. Good to know.

Winchester cursed under his breath, taking the notebook and a scented pen from Garth's shaky hands. He had no idea if his name in this world remained unchanged. His instinct was telling him that Dean Winchester was not a catchy name fit for a rock star.

"Please, write for Alex, mr Blade," Garth whispered, "I mean, mr Michaels."

Dean did a mental eyeroll while scribbling _For Alex, never give up - Blade Michaels_ , because seriously, it wasn't even remotely funny. And _never give up_ seemed like an universal positive message.

Garth twittered all the time during the ride in the elevator and a walk through an underground garage towards a black limousine with tinted windows.

"Thank you, thank you so much, mr Michaels. I'm so glad that I could finally meet you. It's wonderful that I'm Jimmy's replacement," words died in the little man's mouth; he seemed mortified by what he had just said, "I mean of course what happened to him is a tragedy. No, it's not a tragedy, not yet. Oh God. I mean it won't be a tragedy, because he will be fine. I'm sure he will be fine. It's just that... Plase, don't fire me, mr Michaels..."

"Why would I fire you?"

Garth didn't have time to answer; one of the windows rolled down and Gabriel's head popped out.

"Hop in, kid. Busy day today," he ordered.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean asked grimly after taking his place on the back seat between the archangel and - if he'd figured out Garth's role correctly - his bodyguard.

"Actually, a lot. Now we're heading to Harvelle's Heaven to get you prepared for the photo-shoot that starts at 1 pm. Then you're giving an interview and meeting the finalists of this year's edition of..."

"What's Harvelle's Heaven?" Winchester horned in.

"A beauty salon. Finalists of this year's..." Gabriel repeated, unruffled.

"What?" snapped Dean.

"A beauty sa..."

"What?"

"A beauty... Oh, come on!"

It was one of the strangest things Dean had seen in days. Gabriel smiled. Not smirked, not scoffed. His smile was faint, but warm and sincere, even a bit inhibited. His lips budged weirdly when he tried to keep the reaction in check, but he couldn't help the smile spreading on his face.

"All right, hotshots. Then you're meeting the fans that won a writing competition. And then, dunno... Hospital maybe?"

"Why would I go to a hospital?"

Garth gasped and petrified, but said nothing. Dean hesitantly took the tablet which was handed to him by Gabriel.

"My little insane bro keeps saying you don't read enough and yep, he is right. Check DailyScan."

"Oh yeah, 'cause a scandal sheet is a piece of reading worth a damn..."

The webpage was jam-packed with ads, catchy captions and photos. Some of them showed some kind of a scuffle on a red carpet, a man with a gun aiming at Dean, Castiel charging at the man (Dean had to admit that Cas looked pretty fly in this short, black coat and a black shirt), some showed the attacker tackled by the angel, other showed an ambulance and a group of people kneeling around someone lying on the ground - Dean among them, shouting, with his face pale and eyes widened in horror. Winchester tapped one of the headlines to read the whole article. There wasn't much to read, though. A photostory that unfolded before his eyes was clear-cut: an assault during some kind of a ceremony, Cas protecting Dean and getting shot while trying to overpower the gunman.

"And Iiiiiiiiiiiiieeiiiiiiiii will aaaaaalways love yoouuuuuuuouhouhouhouuu" Gabriel crooned in a burlesque, high-pitched tone, trying to restrain a chuckle.

Dean's heart fluttered in a moment of panic. Soon enough he realized that this wounded bodyguard was probably a dummy, just like Samuél in the first universe. He was starting to get that Gabriel had no intention to harm his little brother. Besides, even if he did, he wouldn't do it this way.

"Who the hell even comes up with all this crap?" he snorted, much to Garth's horror.

"Ooouch, I wouldn't say ther's much _coming up_ involved here. Protecting you is basically what that kiddo does."

Dean tried to rub his face with his palms, but he ended up tugging at his eyebrow and nose rings, simultaneously pushing the inner part of a large labret into his gums. He groaned in unexpected pain and frustration.

"Yeah, but why does it has to be so friggin corny? I mean reliving a chick flick from the nineties? The _nineties_? Seriously?" he spazed out.

"It's only corny when it's not you, isn't it?" Gabriel suggested playfully.

"Yeah, whatever..."

Still, the bitter sting in his throat didn't go away so easily. He realized that something like this could happen any time. Of course Castiel was immune to most blades and firearms, but Dean knew too well that if he was ever attacked with a weapon that could hurt an angel as well, Castiel wouldn't hesitate to take the bullet for him.

He also knew that if it ever happened, he would never forgive himself.

* * *

 **Hi, guys!**

 **I'm so excited that you like the idea so far, because I was pretty uncertain about it :)**

 **I have the outline of the story and a couple of alternate universes ready, but how about some suggestions from you to torture Dean even more? There will be High School AU, two almost-canon universes where the characters aren't really themselves (I can't say more without spoiling it) as well as a little bit of domestic drama. What else? Should Dean pay a short visit to any other universe on his journey to self-acceptance and emotional balance?**

 **I have only two conditions:**

 **1) No parodying any actual story published here or anywhere else - just general ideas that are being used by fans. I don't want anyone to feel offended.**

 **2) No making fun of Cas - the original show is taking it too far for my taste anyway, so I just can't. Cas will appear for a couple of times more as himself to try to help Dean, but I couldn't take any dress-ups, Gabriel's pranks or embarassing situations including him. Besides, it was Dean who scwered up, wasn't it?**


	8. Show must go on

As soon as he found himself in _Harvelle's Heaven_ , Dean was swept away by a tornado of twittering blondes. He was stripped of his T-shirt, seated on an elaborate chair disturbingly similar to a dentist's chair and pinned down by a critical, withering stare of a middle-aged woman. Winchester closed his eyes, hanging on to the mantra he kept repeating. It wasn't Ellen. Just a copy. Ellen was dead and it wasn't his fault, _goddamnit_. It wasn't his fault.

"You'll need to take that off, honey," she judged, pointing at Dean's chest. After a few blinks of confusion Winchester realized that she meant the feather he was still wearing on a string around his neck. He had gotten so used to always having it on that he'd almost forgotten about it. Now that he realized he still had it on, the touch of cool, silky vane was strangely soothing.

"No way," he opposed, wondering why anyone would ask him to remove it anyway.

"Suit yourself, sweetie."

She shoved the feather aside and went away; while she was arranging something with Gabriel (to his horror Dean discerned words like "manicure", "eyeliner" and "hair color mousse") one of the workers covered his chest with something sticky, gooey, warm and smelling like fruits. It wasn't until the layer of this sweetly scented goo was covered wit strips of paper that he realized that something was wrong.

Next second a searing pain shot through his whole body. Whimpering and fighting for breath Dean managed to squeal:

"Why the fuck did you do that?"

Instead of answering, the torturer shouted over to her employer, who was still chatting with Gabriel in the adjacent room:

"Mrs Harvelle, he's being a wussy again!"

"Oh, don't mind him. Blade? The less you monkey around, the sooner it's over. Now, Gabe, where were we? Oh, the fake tattoo..."

While she was speaking, the aestetician started doing something Dean didn't like. No, he didn't like it at all.

"Are you nuts? God, no! Not my happy trail! Girls dig it!" he pleaded, feeling the warm heaviness of the wax spread on his belly, "GEEE-SUS-FFU-EN-UGHM!"

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

The first thing Dean heard while approaching the conference room was squeal. Building up, swelling, threatening like the wind before a storm. Dean could hardly believe there were only fifty fans waiting for an exclusive meeting and poster signing session they earned by winning some idiotic writing competition about Dean's - Blade's music and its role in growing up. Unbearable shriek must have been produced by thousands of little throats. Winchester felt like he was about to enter a house-sized hornet nest full of emotionally unstable, adolescent, clingy hornets. The idea of being a celebrity suddenly seemed preposterous. Why would anyone do something like this out of his own volition?

The hunter wambled into the room on shaky legs (it wasn't fear - it was solely because of these ridiculous platform boots). All that kept this crowd from trampling him was a single guardrail and Garth who was doing his damnedest to fend off fifty little bouncing, squealing, swarming monsters.

If Dean had ever dreamed of being chased by enamored women, he regretted it with his whole heart. Admittedly some of the fans were legal, but absolutely not Dean's type. Torn skinny jeans, tule skirts, leather jackets, red and purple hair, piercing... It was just wrong.

"Hello, mr Michaels," one of the most legal fans that had been standing on 'his' side of the guardrail beamed at him, trying to shout over the clamor of the audience; she was bouncing off the walls, though she tried to look professional by clinging to a very professional-looking writing pad which she held in front of her like a shield, "would you like to answer a couple of questions before the face-to-face meeting with the fans?"

Dean's eyes widened. He wasn't sure that it was possible to be more _face-to-face_ than he was at the moment. He was sure that if it was possible, there were really few things he wanted less than this.

"What do you mean?"

There must have been something odd in his throaty voice or angry frown; whatever it was, it made the girls freeze up. The silence that replaced previous happy clamor was almost palpable.

The host looked dispirited.

"Hasn't your agent told you?" somehow she shrunk, collapsed into hersel; her smile faded away, "After the interview each of the winners will have one question for you and a chance to take a selfie with you."

A _selfie_? Fifty squealing tweens groping him and making faces?

"Yeah, whatever..." he snapped, "let's get it over with. The sooner the better," Dean clapped his hands before sitting on a tall stool, towering over the audience.

The host leaned on the other stool warily. Winchester's brusqueness knocked the wind out of her, yet she struggled to keep a straight face.

"Uhm. Yes. Blade..." the writing pad could no longer protect her from her anxiety; she kept scrunching up a corner of the leaflet clamped to it, "I have prepared several questions concerning your music and your mission, but there is something that seems much more important in the light of recent events. First, let me ask about Jimmy. How is he?"

Dean shrugged, pursing his lips.

"Good, I guess. I mean I haven't heard from him..." he waffled with his look fixed on the interviewer, searching for these slight changes in its expression that would indicate that the answer was sufficient "It... It means he's good..." she still didn't look satisfied, "I mean he's tough. He'll be ok."

 _Phew_. That was it. Winchester felt like he'd been thrown back to high school, where he often had to flounder and talk nonsense until he noticed that the teacher was satisfied with the answer. Thank God he still had this talent of selling the most despicable bullshit and having people take it as face value.

"Is it true that there were some personal..." the girl blushed, "inducements that pushed him towards this nearly suicidal attempt to protect you? You seemed very moved and concerned..." she trailed off, noticing that Dean's expression went from dismissive and jaded to angry.

"It's none of your business!" he growled. The host was taken aback; her eyes widened in utter shock.

The temperature in the conference room dropped to a few degrees above absolute zero.

In this oppressive, ice-cold silence Dean heard pent-up sobbing and a sour whisper:

"See? I told you he's only nice for the camera."

"I can't believe we wrote these stupid essays... It's all a lie!" whimpered another girl - probably the one who'd been trying not to burst into tears.

Excellent. He had been thrown into this world with a mohawk and piercing, he wore butt-squashing pants, tranny boots and makeup for a whole day, he had his chest waxed, he had to pose with a raven - a friggin live huge-ass raven that nearly bit off his nose - for a photo shoot, listen to Garth's babble and now he made a girl cry.

 _He made a girl cry._

Shit.

Dean stooped, resting his elbows on his thighs and his head on his hands; he took a deep breath, then another, until he felt his voice wouldn't waver.

"Look..." he began wearily, "I've had a terrible day. In fact I had a terrible week. I feel like blowing off everyone and everything and just going home to take a long, long shower and go to bed," forcing each word through his vocal cords was a struggle, but he felt he'd crossed the line; no matter how hard apologizing was, it had to be done, "That doesn't justify fucking up the day you've been looking forward to for so long. You're here because you've written the best essays out of how many contestants?" Dean threw the host a quick glance.

"Five hundred thousand," she was still windy, yet hopeful.

"Woah. Anyway you're here because you wanted it really bad and you were the best at something..." he straightened up slowly as he was speaking, though his look was still firmly fixed at the floor, "You deserved a good time and I acted like a turbo douche. I'm sorry. Can we just start over again?" Dean finally found the guts to look at the audience; he immediately noticed a few pairs of eyes staring back at him in confusion, "I'll be a bit down, because these boots suck and my ba... I mean my legs hurts and my whole face is sticky and my best friend is somewhere I cannot reach him and I don't know if he's all right and I don't know if I will ever have an occasion to apologize for ruining everything, as usual," he blurted; the confusion he had seen melted into understanding and sympathy, "So yes. I'll be grumpy. It can't be helped, but I'll try not to be a massive asshat. There's no reason why my bad temper should ruin this day for you. OK?"

It started with a few happy yelps and a shrill shriek of the girl who'd been blubbering. The clamor built up until it was as loud as before, but somehow Dean didn't mind it that much.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

There was a short note stuck to a tablet and a bag of candies on his bedstand when he came back to the hotel. The note said: _You don't read enough, muttonhead. Check this out and tell me what ya think!_

Dean tapped the tablet hesitantly. The content of a pre-loaded webpage hurt his eyes with all the shades of purple on black and a cringeworthy, ornamental font that was probably supposed to resemble letters scraped in metal with a screwdriver. The text was short, though. Apparently Gabriel wanted him to familiarize himself with the winning essay. Whatever. Winchester figured he might as well read it.

When he finished, he had to take a couple of long, deep breaths and swallow hard against a bitter knot forming in his throat.

"Gabe?" he called shakily, "Is this real? Are there people who actually think..."

His phone chimed in the dark, soft silence; the screen lit up, showing one unread message from someone whom he had saved as 'Big G' on the contact list.

 _YEP_ it read.

"Damnit," he muttered to himself before wrapping himself in the sheets of egyptian cotton and succumbing to a heavy, dreamless sleep.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

He woke up in an entirely different room. Everything - the smell, battered wallpapers, ugly and idiotically juxtaposed colors, rough carpeting under his soles - shouted 'motel'. The familiarity of the setting added to a feeling of being well-rested, healthy, relaxed and okay on the whole. Admitedly, the proportions seemed somehow distorted, as if Dean watched the world from a point situated a bit lower than normally, but hell, one could call himself lucky if he'd been tossed about alternate universes and got away with such mild side-effects.

Dean stretched until he heard a clicking sound in his spine; he felt something heavy, wobbly and soft on his chest, but he brushed the observation off, contributing the feeling to having slept in a weird position. Still half-asleep he did what he did every morning: reached down to scratch his...

 _Oh no..._

* * *

 **Hi guys! Thank you so much for your reviews and support. Special big thanks to pyroleigh and CortLand! Kasey123, Tiddo-mus, I hope you'll stay with me :)**

 **I have a question for you all:**

 **I've actually written this "winning essay" and intended to put it in the story, but I figured it would be too sappy, touchy-feelsy, turgid, and, simply speaking, boring. Nonetheless I just love finding songs that I can somehow associate with Supernatural. I've noticed that some of you like it too. Would you like to read it? I could put this "essay" as an AN to the next chapter.**


	9. Dude looks like a lady

_They were gone._

Dean sat on his bed, curled up, clinging to a pillow like a lost baby Coala to a branch, slowly working his way through a legitimate panic attack. Deep breathing technique didn't seem to be working because every time he inhaled, the violent movements of his muscles, ribs and skin reminded him how odd and unnatural everything felt. Still, he tried. He tried his best in spite of his breath turning into an unmanly whimper.

Which was kinda justified, because apparently he was a woman.

Sam was nowhere in sight, though Dean recognized some of his stuff scattered over the other bed. It was a blessing, because it gave Dean some time to overcome the panic and check what exactly he was dealing with before facing anyone. Finally he found the strength to waddle towards the bathroom, feeling with every step that something very important was missing from this body. He reached the sink, but he needed a while to get the nerve up to look into the mirror. Once he did, he immediately regretted even trying.

The worst part was that in a zane, crooked way he was still himself. Everything was there: the same green eyes, fair skin, freckles, cowlicks, even the same big lips and long eyelashes he always hated about himself. His hair was just a tad longer than the last time he really was himself, which gave him an air of a rebellious, yet seductive tomboy. It seemed that once he was just a little less boxy, he made a quite attractive woman. He had an unnerving, vague impression that he could name a porn star who looked pretty similar.

This thought triggered an utterly different set of instincts.

Dean's hand automatically wandered to his breasts. He was a simple man after all. The hunter felt them hesitantly through a skimpy cotton camisole, then slipped his hands under the fabric. They were small - just enough to fill his palms - pert and nicely rounded. And bouncy. At first he tried jouncing them simultaneously, then alternating sides, then squashing them together and observing the cleavage from the best possible perspective. Emboldened by this discovery he pulled his camisole up to see how they looked. This way Dean found out that his antiposession tattoo was placed on his hip - how very original - but whatever, who would even care when there were _boobs_. He tried to shake them using his shoulders; it didn't work well, so he resorted to bobbing on his feet and observing them bounce. The light tug on his skin wasn't the best sensation in the world, but gosh, how they jiggled. He could finally stare and squeeze and play and do all he had ever wanted to do.

He was about to start exploring other parts of his body when he heard the main door slammed shut; standing in the bathroom door he observed a tall, dark-haired girl in worn out jeans and a plaid shirt bustling about the room. She seemed relaxed and confident, which ruled out her being a burglar. Perhaps one of Sam's hookups? That little bastard seldom picked up random girls, but when he did, Dean had to admit that his little brother's taste was quite refined.

She threw a tray with takeout coffee cups and bagels onto a table, then started to undress herself in haste. The girl, who was probably in her early twenties, looked lean and fit; perhaps her shoulders could have been a tad narrower, but a perfect bubble butt made up for any imperfections. Dean tilted his head, quite pleased with the sight, feeling a slight warm stirring in his newly acquired female parts until the girl turned around to face him, wearing only tan underwear.

Sometimes Dean had wondered what Luke and Leia could have felt when they found out they were siblings, but this was a whole new level of awkwardness. He recognized Sam at a first glance.

"Deana, why aren't you ready yet? Come on, we don't have all day..." Sammy nagged, sending Dean her signature sour scowl that was now enhanced by the fact that it was... well, a real bitchface, "Put it on and we gotta get going," she threw Dean a handful of clothes and a small bag - it looked like a mini-version of a duffel but it lacked handles and was made of a vividly patterned material - which she had grabbed from Dean's bed. Winchester found out that they were apparently impersonating FBI agents that day, because the bunch of clothing included a knee-long skirt, white dress shirt, jacket and a gauzy, totally pointless piece of fabric that was probably a scarf. The mini-duffel in turn contained some underwear. The hunter had no problems with the lower part (in fact it wasn't the first time when he wore satin panties), but the bra left him up a stump. He'd taken them off many women many times, but putting the thing on was a different kettle of fish.

"It takes a friggin Houdini, for God's sake," he drawled out under his breath, struggling to make four tiny hooks and eyes meet behind his back where he couldn't see them and had only moderate control over his weirdly contorted hands while two bouncy domes of tissue on his chest (apparently each of them had a mind of its own) wrestled against the padded, boned confinement which was being forced onto them. After four failed attempts and almost spraining his wrist he tossed the bra across the bathroom with a barely restrained growl.

Luckily, a brief examination of the mini-duffel proved that the padded and strapped lace monstrosity wasn't the only option. Dean uttered a short whoop upon finding an one-piece, stretchy thingy that resembled the upper half of an A-shirt and looked comfortable enough. He was ready to go in less than five minutes.

"Girl, seriously?" Sam, who was now clad in a similar outfit, eyed him with dissaprobation, "A sport bra? For interviewing policemen? You lost your push-up or what?" having noticed Dean's flummoxed stare, she tilted her head with a small, commiserative smile, "Deana, I know your nipples get tender when you're ovulating, but we have to do out best today. It's just for a couple of hours."

After ten minutes of wrestling, swearing and groaning Dean found out that if he exhaled really, really hard and twisted his shoulders a little, almost like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, he was able to put the push-up bra on after fastening it. Besides, he almost became a feminist.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Driving Baby was the only thing that had always, absolutely always soothed Dean, no matter how lost or upset or desperate he was. This time, though, this wasn't the case. Whoever came up with this universe respected no sanctity. Impala wasn't an Impala anymore. It was a '69 Ford Mustang, because - guess what - Baby had to be male.

That was why Dean kept gritting his teeth in frustration as he was driving to a pub from which four people had been kidnapped by what the Winchesters had believed to be a vetala or a siren before interviewing the coroner. Now that they knew what had really happened to the victims, the whole case seemed much more complex and dangerous that they'd expected.

The only plus was that Dean could finally change into more comfortable clothes. He had to admit that his female counterpart had a decent taste - Deana's wardrobe included a pair of stonewashed bootcut jeans, a simple black A-shirt, hunter green denim jacket and comfortable leather boots. If it wasn't for the fact that the rough fabric felt really odd against his shaved legs and the zipper wasn't anywhere near where it should be, the hunter would consider the outfit quite comfortable.

"What do you think, girl?" Sam - Samantha interrupted his ruminations about the possible reasons for why his nipples hurt that bad, "The case seems nasty. Perhaps you should call Cassie?"

Dean was opening his mouth to protest when he remembered. That Cassie. The hunter was slowly running out of damns to give about the whole situation, so he had no reservations against summoning the female version of his friend. In fact he was rather curious.

"All right, no probs", he shrugged, then went on in a mocking tone he'd usually used when he was praying to Castiel in somebody's presence, " _Cassie, girl, to Thee I pray, guide and guard me through this day, get your ass into the car, or wait for us at the bar_ ," Dean smirked at his sister, pluming himself on this impromptu rhyme, ignoring Samantha's eyerolls and sighs. Before the younger Winchester managed to verbalize her disapproval, they had reached the pub's driveway. Two people started walking towards them as soon as they exited the car.

A teenage punk-gothic lolita and... Velma from Scoby Doo?

"Deana. Samantha. Hello."

"Whazzup, girls?"

* * *

 **I owe you a big apology. I know I haven't updated or answered your PMs for ages. It was a real hellatus for me - I'm still having one of the worst months of my life. I barely got through a big crisis that almost led to a divorce and my job is hanging by a thread and everything is just awful. Dean, Sam, Cas and Gabe are helping me wade through this pit of sh*t :) I hope I can make your day a bit better with my writing. If any of you is having a rough time - hang on! It's always darkest before the dawn!**

 **I'm adding the "winning essay" written by a "Blade Michael's fan". I just found a couple of songs that just illustrate the story of Dean's life and Team Free Will so good that I couldn't help myself. Here you go:**

* * *

The most interesting feature of Blade's albums is their unique construction. Each of them is in fact a story of a lesson learned, or a step made on the quest to find oneself. The opening and the end song always revolve around the same subject. The opening song defines a problem or asks a question, while the end song provides answers.

The same tendency is visible throughout Blade's whole musical career. I have chosen three consecutive albums to show an interesting approach of a musician who matures together with his audience; who provides his fans with a fascinating and comforting story that teaches us how to overcome obstacles and define oneself.

The first album - "Oh, Boy!" - quite straightforwardly deals with the problem of growing up and becoming a man. A young boy struggles with the burden of masculinity, of a role ascribed to him and of expectations he does not want to meet. Through twelve rebellious, heavy and dark songs we follow a young man seeking his purpose and struggling to find his own way. The opening song narrates the embitterment, helplessness and self-loathing he experiences after realizing that he failed at being who he was expected to be:

 _I feel like no one ever told the truth to me_

 _About growing up and what a struggle it would be_

 _In my tangled state of mind_

 _I've been looking back to find_

 _Where I went wrong_

 _(...)_

 _No, there's no making sense of it_

 _Every way I go I'm bound to lose*_

The ending song complements this dark, depressing picture. There is however a faint glimmer of hope. The boy realizes that it is not him who turned his life into a lie or pointless vegetation. He hasn't failed. He was wronged. He discovers that he has the right to feel violated rather than guilty and ashamed. The problem appears in proper proportions; causes and effects are clear. He expresses his rage by blaming others - the addressees of the final songs - rather than himself and by declaring that their wrongdoings won't be forgiven.

 _New blood joins this earth,_

 _And quickly he's subdued._

 _Through constant pained disgrace_

 _The young boy learns their rules._

 _(...)_

 _They dedicate their lives_

 _To running all of his._

 _He tries to please them all –_

 _This bitter man he is._

 _What I've felt,_

 _What I've known_

 _Never shined through in what I've shown._

 _Never free._

 _Never me._

 _So I dub thee unforgiven**_

In the second album - "Different" - is a story of accepting his own uniqueness. The opening songs includes an epiphany. The Boy realizes that even though he is not the person that others - his parents, friends, society - want him to be or believe him to be, he is not worthless. At first he retreats to a safe place where he is surrounded by outcasts similar to him. It is comforting, but disappointing, because it foreshadows a capitulation.

 _We were the kings and queens of promise_

 _We were the victims of ourselves_

 _Maybe the children of a lesser God_

 _Between Heaven and Hell,***_

Making a stand and confronting his oppressors is the next step. One has to stop hiding and take the fight head-on. The boy throws down a challenge. The composition of the ending song is open. We don't know if the boy will win his fight and neither does he. All he claims is that he will never give up fighting for his right to chose his own way.

 _What if I say I'm not like the others?  
_

 _What if I say I'm not just another_

 _one of your plays? You're the pretender_

 _What if I say I will never surrender?****_

The third and last album - "The Voice" - is dedicated to spreading the gospel of free choice and changing destiny. At first the boy who had turned into a man admits that he is afraid to speak out about his fate and his struggle to break free from whatever was confining him.

 _You've got the words to change a nation_

 _But you're biting your tongue_

 _You've spent a life time stuck in silence_

 _Afraid you'll say something wrong_

 _If no one ever hears it how we gonna learn your song?_

 _You've got a heart as loud as lions_

 _So why let your voice be tamed?_

 _You've got the light to fight the shadows_

 _So stop hiding it away_

 _I wanna sing, I wanna shout_

 _I wanna scream 'til the words dry out*****_

The ending song conveys a powerful message. In order to complete his journey to maturity the man found courage and strength to help others. He is not afraid anymore, though the threat of being attacked and oppressed has not been removed. He admits that telling people the truth requires courage, but he has what it takes.

 _You held me down, but I got up_

 _Already brushing off the dust_

 _You hear my voice, you hear that sound_

 _Like thunder gonna shake the ground_

 _You held me down, but I got up_

 _Get ready 'cause I've had enough_

 _I see it all, I see it now_

 _and you're gonna hear me roar*****_

Some glimpses of Blade's private life let us speculate about the reasons why he had to fight to protect his identity, but I believe that it's not the point here. The message is universal and the persona could be easily interpreted as an Everyman from a modern morality play that preaches a modern gospel of freedom which is a right we sometimes have to claim. Many of us have their own little wars to fight. Sometimes it's about choosing a different occupation or education than your parents chose for you. Sometimes it's about knowing that you were brought to this world to serve a purpose and those who gave you life can't see the real you past the role they want you to play. Sometimes it's about feeling that your gender is different from the one doctors ascribed to you. Sometimes it's about loving the wrong person. Sometimes it's about loving the wrong gender.

Even when others claim that some of these wars are petty and insignificant, I think that every human has something equally valuable to win: his or her own freedom. Blade teaches us that nothing is more important than this.

* * *

* Queen - Too much love will kill you

** Metallica - Unforgiven

*** 30 seconds to mars - Kings and queens

**** Foo Fighters - Pretender

***** Emeli Sande - Read all about it

****** Katy Perry - Roar


	10. Who run the world? Girls!

"I can bring some beverages, just tell me what you want to order," Cassie offered, staring at the tips of her own shoes. It was obvious that she felt uneasy, perhaps even threatened in a pub full of huge bikers and loudmouthed, denim-clad babes.

"A strawberry daiquiri with whipped cream, super sweet!" Gabe asked playfully around a huge heart-shaped lollipop that filled half of her mouth.

"Whatever..." Dean sighed, too flabbergasted to actually care about a drink. He had no problems accepting Gabriel's laid-back attitude and squeaky voice. What shocked him was that the archangel appeared much more like himself in the body of a glitzy, nonchalant teenage girl with a tiny, heart-shaped face, porcelain complexion, golden curls and a hellish attitude than in the vessel of a middle-aged, seedy janitor the Winchester knew.

"Make it double..." she leaned to bring her lips close to Cassie's ear though her whisper was so loud that everyone could hear, "double _whatever_ on ice."

The Winchesters awarded the joke with small huffs, but the younger angel seemed lost in a way that made looking at her almost painful. Dean bit his lip. It was so odd, so wrong. Cas was often confused, but never this vulnerable. Earthly idioms, references or jokes which he failed to get excited his curiosity, annoyance, even amusement, but they never challenged his self-respect or repose, like he knew that his inability to understand them didn't matter at large. Sometimes Dean embellished his speech with all kinds of weird connotations and proverbs he could come up with just to banter with with the Seraph and though Castiel didn't get most of them, he got that it was meant to be raillery. Sometimes when this happened, he would give Dean one of these rare looks of affection and lenience seeping through pretended umbrage. A look that would make Dean feel safe and cherished. Cassie, on the other hand, seemed authentically mortified.

"And you, Samantha?" she asked feebly.

"A bloody mary with unsalted tomato juice. Make sure they add celery," the hunter asked kindly with a small, courtly smile. Her brother rolled his eyes.

"Seriously? Dude, we're boozing and you're trying to make a drink healthy?"

Having noticed a strange tension bubble up between the sisters, Gabriel made a classic, theatrical 'whoops' face, putting her finger to her plump, pearly, pink lips.

"C'mon, sis, I'll give you a hand. By the way, what do you want? Sex on the beach?" she giggled at her sister's embarrassment as they were leaving the table and heading towards the bar.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Dean leaned forward and hissed:

"What is he, I mean she doing here? I get Cas, but Gabe? She's a friggin archangel. Are we so lame that we can't even gank a simple monster without asking Holy Hosts of Heaven for help?"

Samantha seemed genuinely hurt. Dean had a soft spot for his brother's big eyes, dimples, bulb nose and girly smile when he was a guy, but now that Sam was a girl, giving Dean the puppy eyes was nothing but the dirtiest of all dirty tricks.

"All right, there..." the older Winchester drawled out willy-nilly, "I didn't mean to jump all over you. Just tell me the plan."

The younger hunter bit her lip.

"She's the bait."

"The bait," there was no emotion in Dean's voice. He was too stunned. The only association that immediately sparked up in his brain that included Gabriel in his girly, lacy, naughty visage and baiting was leading straight to something very dirty and very illegal.

"Yes," Samantha didn't seem to notice her sister's bafflement, "You remember the vic's profile. Young women, blonde and fairly attractive."

"But he's not a woman! I mean... Not a human. Monsters will psych it out."

"That's why you're here. In case they sense it," there was no doubt that there was a hidden agenda behind Samantha's timid statement.

"Why me?"

"Well, victims have another feature in common," she gulped; in no time her entire face was as red as a beetroot, "They were all virgins."

Now that was offensive.

" _Virgins_?!"

Samantha ruffled up at Dean's yell, but after a while she calmed down; her face assumed an expression of understanding, ruth and affection. She even took Dean's hand in hers. Dean braced himself for an impending chick flick moment.

"Deana, you know I love you and I support you with all my heart and I would never ever even think of demeaning your... Uhm, your kind of sex. Still, monsters are not so open-minded and they're certainly not into political correctness. Since you have never been... Penetrated by a man... Well, technically you are a virgin," she choked out, caught between the need to show her sister heartfelt support and being embarrassed out of her mind.

So female Dean was lesbian. It made sense. The disconcerting thing was that it made sense in more than one way...

Luckily, the moment of awkward silence between the Winchester sisters was broken by clinking of glass and footsteps. The angel-girls returned, each of them carrying two glasses. While placing the bloody mary with a huge celery stem in front of Sam, Gabriel elbowed the tumbler Cassie had just placed in front of Dean. The hunter could have sworn it was deliberate.

"Oopsadaisy!" she exclaimed, then assumed the fakest of all fake innocent smirks while Dean hissed as his lap received an ice-cold shower of booze.

"Don't worry. I will clean it..." Cassie offered and without further ado she pressed her hand to Dean's thigh, then moved it dangerously close to his crotch.

The hunter tensed up in an anticipation of this tantalizing jolt of pleasure spiked with pain that shot through his veins every time Castiel touched him, then relaxed, equally relieved and disappointed. There was nothing. Even when Cassie peeked at him and Dean saw a glimpse of blue behind her long, dark eyelashes, there was nothing.

Dean eyed her once again when she was walking back to take her seat; he had to admit that there was nothing wrong with her; though she was fit and lean, she had all the curves in all the right places, decently covered with a beige turtleneck and knee-long pleated skirt. If he met a girl like this on one of his better days Dean would probably try placing his hand on one of those pale thighs and moving it up, under that Sunday-schoolgirl's skirt, but then it would probably end in a night of unsentimental banging and throwing the post-it note with her number into a nearest trash can. It was not how it was supposed to be. It was not how he wanted it to be.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

"So I was thinking if it would be practical if we kept two journals, one for the dates, places, contacts and details of each case and another for lore, creatures, ways to kill them.." Samantha rambled on, casting stealthy glances at the darkest corners of the pub in wait for something unusual to happen while Gabe was leisurely swirling the remnants of her drink with a striped pink-and-white straw, Dean was staring blankly at Cassie, whose vapid gaze was wandering about the pub as well, "Of course we would have to introduce some kind of coding or a very good, updateable table of contents so that we are able to correlate the dates with monsters."

Gabrielle tried to get the last sip of her daiquiri; the straw made a loud, ugly, burbling sound.

"Sorry," she giggled. Samantha just sighed.

"I wonder if the entries should be added in alphabetical or chronological order. Or perhaps we should start from describing victim's symptoms, omens, weapons etcetera and simply add a list of creatures that could be involved in each case?"

 _Slurp_.

"Sorry again..."

"Uhm... Although it would reduplicate the first journal... Or perhaps we should give up paper journals and try to build a good digitized database. It would be much more accessible, but on the other hand it could be lost easily. Laptops often break and pen-drives are so tiny..."

 _Slurrrrp._

 _A chuckle. A sigh._

"Or perhaps we could store it on an external server, but then again..."

Sammy's blather went in one ear and out the other. All Dean could think of was Cassie and how much everything was wrong about her. She was buttoned up and funky like real Cas, but it was an insecurity of a girl learning to ride roller skates, not an insecurity of heaven's Dwayne Johnson learning to drive a Catterpilar 797B. There was no way she storm into that barn having had a hurricane open the door for her. There was no way she could just stand there, perfectly unfazed, with a foot-long knife guard-deep in her chest and give Dean that particular look that meant _I should smite you and then resurrect you, then smite you and resurrect you again to teach you some respect, but you are just too adorable._ There was no way she could storm into his life and violate his mind, rape him, tear him apart with just a few words and then be so sincerely clueless about it, so amazed by how vulnerable a human can be. There was no way she could then put him back together, cocoon him in that warm safety, in a feeling that he was cared for, protected, cherished.

It wasn't until his memories of Cas's were juxtaposed with Cassie's iffiness and and obsequiousness that Dean realized why he treasured the Seraph's loyalty so much. It wasn't that angel was allegiant by nature. He was anything but this. It was about how special Dean felt knowing he was the only one who had ever won this steadfast devotion. He had witnessed how fierce Castiel's wrath could be; he basked in being so precious that the warrior of Heaven was making an exception for him. Castiel's patience wasn't limitless and God help anyone who tried to put it to the test, unless it was Dean.

The older Winchester hardly registered when Gabriel left to bring another round of drinks; he was immersed in thought, fighting his own internal fight. It was high time to admit that he liked being the weak one, the protected one. It didn't mean that he would be submissive - of course he made the most of his special privilege to wrangle with his angel. He was ravished every time that ice-cold, whirling vertigo pierced his guts if he saw Castiel's eyes darken in barely contained rage, a truly biblical ire welling up behind his blue irises. In fact, he often provoked Cas on purpose just to get a shot of his favorite drug. It wasn't difficult, because...

Well, they quarreled nearly all the time. No wonder they did. Now that Dean thought about it, he realized that the Seraph was incedibly self-assured and insensitive, so intractable and haughty, so hopelessly dense and literal, so... Neanderthalian. Ughm. A typical man. Rock-ribbed, deaf and blind to anything that wasn't not obvious. Gosh, that bullhead could be a real pain in the ass. A huffy, dull-witted, mullish caveman.

Dean snapped out of it upon realizing he was gritting his teeth in helpless anger. He looked down, wondering whether this litany had anything to do with his newly acquired ovaries or how something so tiny managed to infuse his brain with misandrous ideas so quickly.

Anyway, apparently Dean loved hating Castiel - real Castiel - just the way _he_ was. Awkward and confused, yes, but powerful and headstrong. As tenacious in haggling with Dean as in protecting him. Protecting his little treasure.

Yeah, the situation required some serious _coming to terms with himself._

The Winchester started up, nudged from behind. Before he wised up what was happening, he found himself being hauled out of the pub by flushed and angry Gabriel, whose fingers were dug deep into Dean's arm.

"I hate this place. Dad, how can anyone be so hideous?" she hissed straight to Dean's ear.

"What happened?"

"I am never going to wash these foul stares off of me... We're leaving,"

"Hey, I was just getting on for another epiphany!"

Dean tried to balk, but to no avail. No matter if his legs cooperated, Gabriel was still dragging him out of the pub.

"Doesn't matter. I feel soooo violated."

"Well, you had it coming," the hunter snickered, "Look at yourself."

It stopped the archangel in tracks. She spun around, authentically offended.

"You are a swine. A sexist swine."

"Anyway, if you have beef with some pervs, why don't you just smite them?"

"I just don't. I could give them a lesson trickster-style, but we don't have time for this."

Dean crossed his arms, rising his eyebrows.

"So you admit that that's what you do when someone pisses you off? It _is_ a punishment."

"Gosh, you've been a woman for sixteen hours and you're already carping."

Gabriel rolled her big, makeup-dripping eyes before patting Dean's head. Everything went dark.


	11. You gotta share, you gotta care

The first thing he noticed after waking up was the smell of rubber, dust, oily denim and cheap floor detergent. The mix was painfully familiar. Dean stretched, then gingerly felt his own body. Everything was in the right place. Was it possible that he was in the right place too?

Upon opening his eyes he saw the well-known threadbare maroon carpet, a triple window and a coach. His sigh of relief must have been audible in the whole house. He was at Bobby's.

The hunter stretched once again, welcoming the proper shape of his own body, relishing in how every muscle and tendon reacted exactly right. Rubbing his eyes didn't help him get rid of this drowsy, warm haze, so he hopped out of his sack to plod towards the kitchen in hope of getting some coffee.

"Here you are!" Singer welcomed him joyfully, "slept well?"

"Uhm... Yes..." the Winchester had expected rather something along the lines of _finally you dragged your lazy ass here,_ "Bobby, you won't believe what happened to me."

The older hunter turned to him; a frying pan in one hand, a pancake spatula in the other, wearing a red-and-white polka dot apron.

"I know, son. I know it's been hard for you," he sighed with heartfelt compassion, "But first you need to eat. Wanna pancakes with butter and maple syrup, peanut butter and banana with chocolate sauce or lemon curd and blueberries?"

Dean scratched the back of his head. Something was off. Deep down he knew that Bobby would do anything for his foster sons; hell, he'd die for any of them, but not make pancakes with lemon curd and blueberries.

Bobby shrugged, but the look of ruth on his face didn't fade.

"Well, I'll make you one with each," he stopped halfway turned to the stove before he looked at Dean again, "I know you had a bad dream, but I didn't wanna wake you up. Well, at least you finally slept through a night."

Since when did Bobby care if Dean was having nightmares? Since when did he assume it was possible for a hunter to sleep through a night without nightmares?

The older hunter busied himself with frying the pancakes, though there was still this aura of tension and pity around him. He finally snapped, resting his hands on the counter and swearing under his breath:

"Balls, I really hoped everything would be fine this time. Dean, you deserve it. You deserve some happiness. I don't know why you keep resisting."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, spare me, you know what I'm talkin' about," Bobby spun around, nearly stabbing Dean with the greased spatula, "I'm talkin' about you and Cas. About how you keep playin' dumb. You love him, he loves you, why can't you two idjits just stop bollockin' about?"

Winchester gaped at nim, inarticulate and puzzled until his brother's arrival disembarrassed him. Having placed some grocery bags on the table he took Dean's face in his big, clunky hands to make him look him in the eyes.

"Phew, you don't have a fever anymore. You gave us a good scare yesterday!" he twittered, tousling his big brother's hair, "but you still need to get stronger. I'll make a pie and some cupcakes for the afternoon if you want!"

"How the hell are cupcakes supposed to make me stronger? By the way all I need is coffee. I'm okay."

Sam sighed from the depth of his huge lungs; the look he gave his brother was a mixture of alarm, affection and veneration.

"Dean, why are you always trying to be so brave?" he asked, "You don't have to conceal your pain from us. We're here for you. We'll help you work it out."

"Yeah. By making me puke sprinkles. What happened to your organic sugarfree lettuce regime? What the hell is wrong with you both?"

The younger Winchester inhaled sharply. His face was inscrutable, but his eyes went teary in no time. He proceeded to unpack the groceries, whacking each box and little bag on the table with a loud thump. Dean blinked in disbelief.

"Now, look what you've done," Bobby's tone expressed concern as he shook his head slowly, "Boy, listen. I know you are devastated, but you shouldn't have taken it out on your brother. He's doin' his best. Sam, you know he didn't mean it."

It was getting stranger every second.

"Wait. Gimme a sec..." The older Winchester zoomed off the kitchen and the house before the atmosphere got too thick, "Gabe?" he hollered into the sky. It wasn't long until he heard that whoosh of angel wings and a squawk:

"Yup?"

Dean was in Gabriel's personal space in no time, looming over him, cowing , asking in that particular mixture of whisper and yell:

"What is that? What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing," the archangel answered with a shrug.

The situation was slowly starting to make sense to the hunter; he took a step back, squinting at his friend.

"Wait a minute. We're not back yet. It's another fucked up world."

"Bingo."

"But... Why... Them... Why are they so sappy? And why is Sam suddenly a PMSing scout girl? I mean he's always been a sissy, but come on."

"They are OOC," the archangel straightened up, embellishing his speech with sassy gesticulation, " _Out of character_. Wait, I should be OOC too," he stepped forward with his chest proudly out, "Look at me, hurr durr, I am a great righteous archangel of the Lord, my wings are made of fire and my balls are made of marshmallows," the archangel coughed, stooped again and somehow shrunk to his regular unimpressive visage, "Oh, and by the way, they are shippers."

"Shippers?"

"Yeah. They ship you and Cas," Gabriel gestured between Dean and somewhere up in the sky.

"To where?"

Winchester was a master of eyerolling among mortals, but he was no match for Gabriel.

"For Dad's sake, why do you have to be so dense? I thought Castiel was the one to ask stupid questions. They _relation_ -ship you" there was a commotion which made the archanel cast a glance over Dean's shoulder; he greeted someone with a nod, "Hey, Bobby, Sam, I was just telling this kinked slinky that you want him and mr Baby Blue to be together."

"But why would they?" Dean was sure that he whispered so quietly that only Gabriel would hear; apparently he underestimated a hunter's excellent hearing. Both men behind his back sighed.

"Ugh. Maybe because we care, you idjit?"

"But... Why?"

"You are asking why?" Sam's tone was enough for his brother to know how sour and hurt his expression must have been. He gritted his teeth. The clash between how familiar and how whacky this universe was was giving him a headache. Still, he had to learn something in order to hop to the next place. He twisted around, opening his arms in a calming gesture, though he was the only person that needed to calm down.

"Wait. Wait. What the hell happened here? What do you remember? What did Cas do?"

Bobby crossed his arms.

"He ain't done nothin'. You did. You told him to buzz off."

"So you mean I was a massive douche again?"

"Yup."

It was something he couldn't understand. Why wasn't anyone tearing a strip off him?

"So why are you suddenly so soft and gooey? Shouldn't you be going all Jerry Springer on me?

"Dean, look, we know it's eating away at you anyway. You're so hard on yourself. You've given yourself enough hell. You don't need it any more."

"Boy's right. Ya ain't alone in this."

Sammy came closer to his brother to put a hand on his shoulder; though Bobby didn't move, there was the same concerned, sad, ruthful look on his face. Dean felt dizzy. The voices, the faces, the gestures: it was all so well-known, so dear to him, but what they were saying was absurd. On the other hand - he thought, feeling his heartbeat speed up and his face go hot - what if it was really like this? What if he really could just go back, ask for help, tell them how he felt, tell them that he was confused, terrified by the thought that he could want something so bad, terrified by how vulnerable and weak it was making him. What if they could just sit, grab a bear, suss it out or he'd just hear them say they'd be there for him no matter how bad he'd fuck up...

No, it was unacceptable. Impossible.

He lurched forward to grab Gabriel's lapels and hissed;

"Get me outta here now!"

"And where's the symbolic floating lightbulb?"

"Dammit, Gabe!"Dean bellowed, "You zapped me out from that girly world for no reason. Now it's my turn. Get me outta here. I... Fuck! I won't talk to these Care Bears. I fuckin' won't."

The archangel cocked his head. The mask of impish airiness was slowly giving way to a more compassionate look.

"You sure?"

"Yep. Get me _anywhere_ , just not here."

"All righty!"

The next second Dean was standing in a well kept park in a place that felt like a city - he'd learned to recognize these places by the noises, traffic, smells, the color of the sky. Something huge vibrated and chimed in his jeans. He labored to pluck an iPhone from his pocket, unlock the screen and find the application for texting - not to mention the time he spent cringing at a brown-and-teal houndstooth casing and a picture of a gloomy lake with a caption in helvetica that said ' _love me when I least deserve it because that's when I really need it'_ as the screen background.

Finally he managed to open the text. It was from Charlie and read:

 _FANCY SOME PECAN DONUTS OR A FLAT WHITE? MEET US AT THAT NEW VEGAN COFFEE SHOP IN 30, I'LL BRING THAT LOMO CAMERA I PROMISED TO LEND YOU_


End file.
